The first molten sliver of sun bleeds across the eastern steppe, painting the endless sea of frost-bitten grass in hues of tarnished gold and bruised purple. Five figures stir within the scant shelter of a shallow depression, their breath pluming in the biting air. Naci stretches, a symphony of stiff joints and creaking leather, her movements sharp despite the bone-deep weariness that clings like a second skin. Weeks of cautious travel, scouring the wind-scoured valleys and hidden passes where the Tepr camp should be at this season, have yielded only empty horizons and the gnawing frustration of failure. Around her, Temej cracks his neck with a sound like grinding stones, Fol meticulously checks the fletching on his arrows with a frown, Lanau rubs sleep from her eyes with the heel of her hand, and Meicong scans the awakening plains with eyes like chips of obsidian.

"Another day," Naci mutters, her voice raspy from the cold. She scoops a handful of gritty snow, rubbing it over her face. "Another valley. Another disappointment." She glances at Lanau, who is repacking her meagre bedroll with deliberate slowness. "Lanau," Naci begins, her tone shifting, seeking a sliver of warmth in the desolation. "Across these leagues... who does your heart reach for most?"

Lanau pauses, her hands stilling on the coarse wool. A ghost of a smile touches her lips, surprising in its softness. "My nieces," she murmurs, her voice carrying a rare tenderness. "Little whirlwinds, all of them." She sighs, a plume of white vapour.

Naci's own smile is genuine, a brief thaw in the steppe of her stern expression. "I would like to meet these whirlwinds." She leans forward slightly, her gaze intent. "After all, they are family."

Lanau's head snaps up, her eyes narrowing with sudden, sharp focus. "Family?" The word hangs between them, heavy with unspoken implications. Her gaze flicks to Temej, then back to Naci. "What do you—"

"Riders!" Meicong's voice cuts through the morning stillness. She points a gloved hand towards the northwest, where the low sun casts long, distorted shadows. Five figures on shaggy steppe ponies crest a distant rise, silhouetted against the fiery sky. Their outlines are sharp, unfamiliar.

"Not ours," Temej squints.

"They're Yohazatz. Noga's scouts," Meicong replies.

Every trace of weariness vanishes from Naci's frame, replaced by the lethal alertness of a hunting cat. Her eyes now glitter with cold, calculating fire. She scans the terrain – the shallow dip they occupy, the tall, dry grass whispering in the dawn breeze, the scattered boulders dotting the slope below the riders. The scouts move at a steady trot, scanning the land, unaware of the vipers coiled below.

"Fol, Temej," Naci commands, her voice dropping to a whisper that nonetheless carries absolute authority. "See those three boulders, thirty paces downhill? Like a broken tooth, a flat one, and a leaning one? You reach them unseen. Now. Use the grass, the shadows. Move like the wind sighs." She points to a thicker patch of taller, golden reeds slightly offset. "Lanau, Meicong. There. When they pass the boulders, you rise. Not before. Draw their eyes forward, make them think the threat is there."

Temej sighs. Fol nods once, already melting backwards into the tall grass like a wraith. Lanau and Meicong exchange a glance, then move with silent efficiency towards the reeds, their forms disappearing into the swaying stalks.

Naci herself sinks lower, pulling her fur-lined hood tighter, becoming just another shadowed hummock in the depression. She watches the scouts draw closer. They are relaxed, confident in their dominance over the seemingly empty land. One laughs, the sound carrying faintly on the wind. Another points towards the distant peaks.

"They see nothing," Naci murmurs, almost to herself. "Good. Arrogance blinds." Her hand rests lightly on the barrel of her musket.

The scouts reach the level ground just below the boulders. The lead rider, scanning ahead towards the reeds where Lanau and Meicong are hidden, doesn't see the two shapes detach from the rocks like shadows given form.

Fol moves first, a silent eruption of violence. He doesn't leap; he flows upwards, his powerful arm snaking around the neck of the rearmost scout. There's a muffled crunch as he wrenches sideways, a sound swallowed by the vastness of the steppe. The scout slumps forward over his pony's neck, limp as a sack of grain.

Simultaneously, Temej is a blur. He grabs the next scout by the boot and belt, yanking him bodily from the saddle before the man can even gasp. They hit the frozen ground together, Temej landing atop him. One brutal punch, delivered with the force of a falling rock to the temple, and the man ceases struggling.

The three remaining scouts whirl, confusion turning to alarm as they see their comrades down. They fumble for bows, shouts rising in their throats. "Ambush! To the—"

"Now!" Naci's voice, though low, cracks like a whip.

Lanau and Meicong rise from the reeds like vengeful spirits, bows drawn. Thwip! Thwip! Two arrows fly with deadly precision. One takes a scout high in the chest, punching through leather and wool, silencing his shout in a wet gurgle. The other arrow strikes the lead scout's pony in the flank. The beast screams, rearing in panic, throwing its rider heavily to the ground.

The last scout, a young man with eyes wide as saucers, freezes for a fatal second, his bow half-raised. He stares at the chaos – his leader writhing on the ground, one comrade draped over his horse, another still under Temej, the pony screaming. He looks towards the reeds, then back—

Naci is there. Her hand lashes out with ember-hot speed and precision. She grabs the wrist holding the bow, twists savagely inward and down. Bone snaps with an audible crack, dry kindling breaking. The scout shrieks, the bow falling from nerveless fingers. Before the scream can fully form, Naci's other hand clamps over his mouth like a smothering blanket, quenching the sound. Her knee drives hard into his side, knocking the wind from him like a bellows emptied. She yanks him bodily from the saddle. He hits the ground with a thud, gasping, cradling his broken wrist, staring up at Naci in pure terror.

Silence descends, abrupt and profound. Only the wind sighs through the grass and the pained whimpers of the unhorsed leader and the injured pony remain. Fol is already securing the ponies. Temej stands over the scout he punched, ensuring he stays down. Lanau and Meicong emerge from the reeds, bows lowered but arrows still nocked, scanning the horizons.

Naci looks down at the young scout trembling at her feet. She removes her hand from his mouth slowly. He gulps air, tears of pain and fear streaking the grime on his face like muddy tracks through ash. She crouches, her face level with his. Her expression is calm as banked coals, almost serene, but her eyes are molten fury. She draws the long, bone-white barrel of her musket. She doesn't point it at him; she simply rests its cold, pale length across her knees, the polished wood and steel gleaming like captured moonlight. The contrast is stark: the pristine instrument of death against the frozen earth, held by a woman whose stillness radiates the heat of a contained wildfire.

"Five became one," she states, her voice quiet, conversational. "A poor trade for Noga, wouldn't you say?" Her fingers trace the smooth stock of the musket, a caress that promises immolation. "But you? You have value. Information has value. Tell me about Noga's camp. Tell me about his strength. Tell me about my people." She tilts her head, a predator considering fuel for her fire. "Speak clearly. Speak truthfully." Her gaze, fixed and burning, holds his. "And perhaps," she adds, her voice dropping to a whisper that sears colder than the steppe wind, "you'll see another sunrise after this one."

The young scout gulps, tears mingling with the dust on his cheeks. He stares up at Naci, a figure who seems less a woman now and more an elemental force condensed into leather and fur, her eyes reflecting the rising sun like chips of burning glass.

"They... they fight," he rasps, his voice raw with pain and something else – a reluctant awe. "Your warriors. The ones still free. Like ghosts in the snow." He winces, cradling his shattered wrist. "They strike and vanish into drifts. Harass the supply lines..." A shaky breath. He meets her gaze, a spark of unexpected defiance flaring through the terror. "They have valor. True steel in their spines. They bleed for Tepr." His voice drops, thick with a longing that surprises even him. "It is... a waste. A terrible waste. We should be fighting together. Against the real wolves circling these lands. Not... not this."

Silence hangs, thick and brittle. Then Naci laughs.

It's not a sound of joy, nor cruelty exactly. It's the sharp, cracking report of ice splitting under immense pressure, a sound that startles the grazing ponies and makes Fol's fingers tighten on his bowstring. Her head tilts back, the early light catching the fierce lines of her face, the fire in her eyes blazing brighter. The sound echoes across the empty steppe, incongruous and chilling.

"Valor," she repeats, the word tasting rich and strange on her tongue. Her laughter subsides into a low, dangerous hum, like embers settling. A slow, fierce smile spreads across her face, a baring of teeth that holds more pride than any gentle expression ever could. "My beautiful Horohan." She speaks the name like a prayer to a war god. "Of course. My shadow on the snow. My storm over the steppe. She holds them. She bleeds them."

Her gaze snaps back to the scout, the intensity almost physical. "You wish to fight with us? Side by side?" She leans forward slightly, the white musket shifting infinitesimally on her knees. The scout nods, a desperate, hopeful jerk of his chin. "A noble dream, boy. A fire worth stoking." Her voice drops, becoming almost intimate, conversational, yet carrying the weight of falling stone. "But look at you." Her eyes flick meaningfully to his ruined wrist, cradled uselessly against his chest. "A broken limb. A liability on the march. A weakness in the shield wall."

She pauses, letting the implication hang in the frigid air. The scout's hopeful expression begins to crumble, replaced by dawning horror. Naci's voice remains calm, almost instructive. "You are a horseman. Yohazatz born. You know the steppe law. You know what must be done to a horse with a broken leg." Her fingers, resting lightly on the musket's stock, tighten almost imperceptibly. The polished wood seems to drink in the pale light, becoming colder, more lethal. "It is a mercy, is it not? To end the suffering? To stop the weakness from infecting the herd?"

The scout's eyes widen, darting from her face to the white muzzle resting so innocently before him. He tries to scramble back, a choked whimper escaping his lips. "N-no... please... I can still—"

Naci moves.

It's not a lunge, but an eruption. She rises from her crouch in one fluid, terrifying motion, bringing the musket up with blinding speed. There's no dramatic aiming, no shouted threat. The long, bone-white barrel simply finds the space between his wide, terrified eyes. Her expression is utterly serene, the calm at the heart of a wildfire.

KA-BOOM!

The sound isn't just loud; it's a physical force. It rips through the morning stillness like the sky itself tearing apart. A flock of unseen birds explodes from a distant thicket. Sartak and Uamopak squawk in alarm, flapping their wings. The unhorsed leader, groaning nearby, jerks violently, his whimpering silenced by sheer shock. Temej, checking his prisoner, actually flinches, muttering, "By the frozen hells, warn a man!"

Where the scout's head had been, there is now a ruin. A crimson mist hangs in the air for a split second, glittering oddly in the sunlight, before gravity reclaims it. What remains slumps backward, a headless puppet with its strings cut, the frozen earth beneath it suddenly and violently painted in a grotesque, steaming abstract. The smell – cordite, copper, and something deeply, primally wrong – blooms thick and cloying.

Silence crashes back, deeper and more profound than before, ringing with the echo of the shot. The only sound is the frantic panting of the scout Temej had knocked out earlier. He'd been stirring, groggily pushing himself up on one elbow. Now he stares, frozen, at the headless corpse beside him. His face is a mask of pure, uncomprehending horror, drained of all color. He sees the spreading pool of crimson soaking into the frost, the unnatural stillness of what was once his comrade. His gaze travels slowly, dazedly, up the length of the white musket, its barrel now wisping a thin curl of smoke, to the woman holding it.

Naci stands amidst the carnage, the weapon held loosely, almost negligently, at her side. She is utterly still. Her eyes fix upon the surviving scout. There is no rage in them now, only an ancient, terrifying emptiness, the absolute void left after a star collapses. Meicong once called her Troma Nagmo. She is the Black Wrathful Mother, the Stormbringer, she is the Reckoning given flesh.

The scout whimpers, a high-pitched, animal sound. He scrambles backwards on his elbows, boots digging frantically into the mud, trying to put distance between himself and the headless horror, between himself and her. His eyes are wild, rolling in their sockets. "M-mercy!" he gasps, the word a ragged sob. "Great Khagan! Goddess! Please! Mercy! I-I surrender! Anything! I'll do anything!"

Naci takes a single, deliberate step forward. The crunch of her boot on the frost is deafening in the silence. She doesn't look at the corpse; her burning gaze is solely on the living scout, pinning him like a butterfly. The white musket, still faintly smoking, points not at him, but downwards.

"Mercy," she echoes, her voice a low, resonant scrape, like stone grinding on stone. It carries no inflection, yet it seems to vibrate in the very air. "You have it." She gestures with the faintest tilt of the musket's muzzle towards the headless ruin. "That was mercy. Swift. Clean." Her gaze bores into him, stripping him bare. "Yours is different. A message."

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She takes another step, looming over him. The rising sun silhouettes her, casting a long, monstrous shadow that envelops him. "You will ride," she commands, the words dropping like stones. "Ride hard. Ride fast. Back to your master. Back to Noga, the son of Qaloron, who styles himself Khan of Khans." She leans down slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carries the weight of mountains. "You will look him in his proud, thieving eyes, and you will tell him..." She pauses, letting the terror build, letting the image of the headless corpse burn into the scout's soul. "Tell him the Wind of Tepr is blowing on his graveyard..." Her lips curve in a smile colder than the deepest winter. "And that this showdown will decide who the Sky favours as Khan of Khans."

The scout whimpers again, scrambling to his feet, his eyes fixed on her in utter, abject terror before he stumbles towards the nearest pony, desperate to flee the goddess of war and her terrible, white thunder.

Naci watches him shrink into the vastness, a predator gauging the flight of wounded prey. "Follow," she commands, her voice cutting through the lingering cordite stench and the stunned silence. "Far enough to see, not near enough to smell his fear." She swings onto Liara's back, the white mare snorting, eager to run. The others mount swiftly.

They move at a ground-eating trot, a loose formation keeping the panicked scout as a dark speck against the endless gold and white. The silence stretches, broken only by the rhythmic thud of hooves on frozen earth and the creak of leather. Lanau guides her horse alongside Liara. Naci, focused on the distant figure, doesn't immediately acknowledge her.

"Naci," Lanau begins, her voice tight, strained against the wind. "Back there... before the scouts came. You spoke of family. My nieces." She pauses, gathering courage like a gambler stacking chips. "You said they are family. To you." Her gaze bores into Naci's profile, searching for cracks in the granite. "What did you mean? That... that all who ride with you are kin? That the family of your sword-brothers is your family?"

Naci finally turns her head. Her expression isn't stern, but genuinely surprised, eyebrows lifting fractionally above her eyes. "Lanau Axi-Örukai," she says, the name carrying unexpected weight. "You are family."

Lanau blinks. A fierce grin starts to form. "Ah! So it is as I thought! The bond of the warband! Shared blood spilled, shared—"

Naci laughs. It's not the ice-cracking sound from before, but a rich, genuine rumble that startles Liara's ears forward. She shakes her head, the intricate braids at her temples swaying. "Temej? Fol?" She gestures back at them. Temej, catching the gesture, gives a confused, oblivious wave. Fol offers a silent nod, his gaze still fixed on the scout. "I love them like my real brothers. Fiercely. Unconditionally. They are my brothers. But," she pauses, meeting Lanau's now utterly bewildered gaze, her own eyes sparkling with sudden, almost mischievous realization, "they are not the same kind of family as you, Lanau."

Lanau's grin freezes, then shatters. Her jaw works soundlessly. The wind seems to howl louder in the sudden vacuum of her understanding. "Naci, by all the frozen hells and the fires beneath them, explain! What are you talking about?" Her horse dances sideways, sensing her rider's agitation. "You can't drop a rock like that and just laugh!"

Naci's laughter subsides into a warm chuckle. She guides Liara closer, leaning in conspiratorially, though her voice carries clearly. "Peace, cousin. It seems I assumed knowledge that was buried deeper than a winter root." She takes a breath, the amusement fading into something softer, more profound. "My name," she states, the words dropping into the wind like stones into a still pool, "is Naci Korelen-Örukai."

Lanau's world tilts. Her hands clench on the reins, knuckles white. Her breath catches in her throat, sharp as a shard of ice. "Örukai?" The name is a whisper, ripped away by the wind but echoing deafeningly in her own skull. "You... Örukai? But... Korelen? Tarun Korelen-Örukai was..." Her mind races, connecting threads hidden for decades. "My grandfather's cousin! He went west... vanished... married a Jabliu chieftain's daughter! AAAAHH!" She screams, realizing the obvious. "Why did I never think of it before?!"

Naci nods, her expression turning wry. "My grandfather, Tarun, my mother, Gani. My father, Tseren." She shrugs, a dismissive flick of her gloved hand. "When you're a woman like me, flaunting a name like 'Korelen-Örukai' makes you sound like a peacock preening in a pigsty. Spoiled. Fancy." She grimaces playfully. "So, I am Naci. Or Naci of the Jabliu. Or," her eyes glint with familiar, fierce pride, "the Khan of Tepr. Korelen-Örukai? That's for dusty scrolls and moments when I absolutely need to remind some arrogant imperial bureaucrat that my blood is older than his crumbling palace." She glances at Lanau, whose face is a masterpiece of stunned incredulity. "Few know."

"Cousin," Lanau breathes, the word tasting strange, wondrous, and utterly terrifying. Her eyes dart over Naci's face as if seeing it for the first time – the strong jaw, the set of the eyes, echoes of her own uncles, her father. The fierce Jabliu warrior before her shares her blood. The woman who just blew a man's head off with a white musket is her kin.

...

The first true light of dawn bleeds across the Yohazatz camp, revealing the price of deceit. Noga rides through the main avenue, the preternatural stillness of his midnight stallion a stark counterpoint to the lingering chaos. His eyes, cold and assessing as glacial ice, sweep over the scene near the command yurt. The snow is no longer white. It's a churned, frozen slurry of crimson mud, studded with the broken, chained forms of the women from the decoy ruin. The air hangs thick with the coppery stink of slaughter and the greasy smoke of extinguished torches. Soldiers move with stiff efficiency, dragging bodies onto a growing pile, their faces grim, eyes averted. The performance, it seems, has reached its final, bloody act.

General Ahal, face like weathered granite etched with disapproval, meets him as he dismounts. The general's gaze flicks briefly to the carnage. "Khanzadeh," he rumbles, the word heavy. "You return."

Noga doesn't look at the bodies again. His focus is absolute, predatory. He gestures dismissively towards the slaughtered women. "And this? Who decided the curtain call?"

Ahal shifts his weight, the leather of his armor creaking. "Your wives, Khanzadeh." He delivers the fact bluntly, devoid of inflection. "They... took command. Issued the order for chains. Conducted the... interrogation." He pauses, the implication hanging heavier than the stench. "Themselves."

A slow, dangerous curve touches Noga's lips. Not warmth, but the baring of fangs. "Did they?" The words are a low purr. "My smart wives. My strong wives." Pride, sharp and possessive, glints in his eyes, utterly devoid of sentimentality. "Where are they now?"

"The survivor, Khanzadeh," Ahal confirms, nodding towards a smaller, isolated yurt further back, its felt walls seeming to absorb the weak sunlight. "They continue the questioning there. They left the... cleanup... to us." His distaste for the task is palpable.

Noga strides towards the indicated yurt. The morning air, crisp and biting, carries another sound now, threading through the low murmur of the camp: a thin, ragged cry, choked and desperate, emanating from within the small structure. It rises, peaks on a note of pure animal agony, then subsides into a wet, shuddering gasp. The sound of truth being flayed from flesh.

He pushes the felt flap aside and enters.

The air inside is thick, cloying. Incense battles unsuccessfully against the smells of terror, sweat, blood, and something faintly acidic. A single brazier glows, casting long, dancing shadows that twist like tormented spirits on the felt walls.

The tableau is stark. The remaining Nedai woman is bound to a central support pole, stripped to the waist. Sweat and tears streak the grime on her face. Her breathing is rapid, shallow whistles through clenched teeth. Fresh, precise cuts – shallow but agonizing – ladder her forearms. A small brazier holds glowing coals, and near it rests Altantsetseg's jade serpent dagger, its ruby eyes seeming to gleam with unholy light.

Bora stands with her back mostly to the entrance, a silhouette of contained authority, observing. Sarangerel, her face pale but set in lines of grim determination, holds a damp cloth that she's clearly just used to wipe sweat – or blood – from her brow. Her sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms spattered with tiny crimson droplets. Altantsetseg is closest to the prisoner.

The cry had just subsided as Noga entered. All three wives turn. The shift in the atmosphere is instantaneous, electric. The focused intensity of interrogation fractures, replaced by a wave of profound, visceral relief that washes over their faces, erasing the harshness of their task for a heartbeat.

"Noga!" Sarangerel breathes, the word escaping like a sigh long held. Her eyes, wide and anxious moments before, soften with a warmth that seems incongruous in this charnel pit.

Bora turns fully, her flinty gaze sweeping over him, head to toe, searching for injury. Finding none, a tension releases in her shoulders. "You rode alone," she states, her voice flat, but the underlying accusation – and relief – is clear.

Altantsetseg lowers the heated bone sliver, her wide, curious eyes fixed on him. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips, fleeting as a snowflake. "The Tiger returns," she murmurs. "Untouched. The steppe trembles."

Noga steps further in, his presence filling the small space. He ignores the bound, trembling woman for a moment, his gaze encompassing his wives. A genuine, fierce pride lights his eyes. "I return to find my den guarded by lionesses," he declares, his voice resonant with approval. "You saw the rot and cut it out. Cleanly. Efficiently. As it should be." He gestures vaguely towards the carnage outside. "The Tepr dogs who set this snare? Weaklings. Five warriors, armed, mounted. They thought to ambush me." He scoffs, a sound like grinding stone. "They decorate the steppe now. Proof that cunning without strength is merely elaborate suicide. This," he nods towards the bound woman, "is the last gasp of their trickery. Soon, we crush the real nest and go home."

His words are a balm and a brand. The wives stand a little straighter, their expressions hardening again with purpose, the brief vulnerability sealed away.

"The nest remains hidden, husband," Bora replies, her voice regaining its cool edge. She nods towards the prisoner. "Her song is... repetitive. She confirms the camp was a stage. Confirms the warriors protecting it were actors. Whispers of the real Nedai moving north, towards the Eagle's Crag passes. Whispers of the Khatun's beast... a shadow in the mountains. But precise numbers? Exact location?" Bora shakes her head slightly. "The well of her courage, or her knowledge, seems shallow. We tap it slowly."

Another low moan escapes the bound woman's lips. Altantsetseg tilts her head, observing the sound with detached interest. "The notes are consistent," she observes softly. "But the melody lacks variation. Perhaps a different instrument..."

Noga watches his youngest wife contemplate the bone sliver. There's no cruelty in her gaze, only a terrifying, focused curiosity. "Do not overwork yourselves, my hearts," he says, a note of surprising gentleness entering his voice, incongruous amidst the brutality. "The hunt continues. This one," he flicks a dismissive glance at the prisoner, "is a spent arrow. Let Ahal's butchers wring the last drops if they wish. Your hands," his gaze sweeps over Sarangerel's blood-spattered arms, Altantsetseg's delicate fingers holding the torture tool, Bora's commanding posture, "are meant for finer tasks. Or for rest."

Sarangerel steps forward then, her practical nature reasserting itself. She picks up a clean cloth from a small table holding implements better left unexamined and begins wiping her arms with brisk, efficient strokes. "Rest is for the prey, husband," she retorts, but her eyes hold a softness reserved only for him. "But even the Tiger must eat." She points towards the untouched tray near the entrance – dried meat, hard cheese, a skin of fermented mare's milk. "You skipped the hunt's dawn ration. Go. Eat. Before we must tie you down and force broth down your throat." A ghost of her usual wry humor touches her lips.

She steps closer and places her clean hand firmly on his chest, pushing him back towards the entrance flap. It's not a forceful shove, but an insistent pressure.

Noga, the man who shattered warriors with his bare hands, the Scourge who deflected arrows like myths made flesh, allows himself to be pushed. A flicker of something remarkably like helplessness crosses his face, instantly replaced by a wry, almost boyish acceptance of this particular defeat. He catches Sarangerel's wrist gently, not to resist, but to bring her knuckles briefly to his lips. "As my fierce Sarangerel commands," he murmurs, a rumble of amusement in his voice. He nods to Bora and Altantsetseg. "Do not dull your claws entirely on this one."

He ducks out of the yurt, leaving the thick air, the scent of pain, and the chilling competence of his wives behind. The cold morning greets him, smelling of snow and distant pines, and the undeniable aroma of breakfast. The mighty Khanzadeh, conqueror of men, walks towards the waiting tray, thoroughly and amusingly vanquished by the simple, terrifying power of his wives' concern.

...

The greasy tang of dried mutton fat still clings to Noga's fingers as he stands near the command yurt, methodically working his way through the breakfast Sarangerel enforced. The camp bustles with a brittle energy – men cleaning bloodied gear, avoiding the churned, crimson snow near the wives' interrogation yurt, the air thick with the aftermath of slaughter and the low thrum of unease. Noga chews with the steady rhythm of a millstone, his gaze distant, fixed on the southern horizon where the fake Nedai camp lies. Planning. Calculating the tightening noose around Horohan's elusive forces.

Then, chaos erupts at the camp's southern edge.

A lone pony, lathered in sweat that steams in the cold air, stumbles through the perimeter guards. The pony, spent and trembling, collapses just inside the picket line, pitching its burden forward. The man – a Yohazatz scout by his tattered, mud-spattered uniform – hits the frozen mud with a wet thud, rolls once, and lies still for a heart-stopping second.

Then, like a puppet jerked by unseen strings, he scrambles. Not to rise, but to crawl. He drags himself through the filth, leaving a smeared trail, towards the cluster of commanders near Noga. His face, when he lifts it, is a mask of dirt, blood crusting a split lip.

"Mercy!" The word tears from his throat, raw and bubbling, more a wounded animal's cry than human speech. He slams his forehead into the mud, again and again, a desperate, rhythmic thudding. "Great Skyfather, mercy! Forgive this worthless worm!"

General Ahal, his granite face etched with perpetual displeasure deepened by the morning's bloody chores, is the first to react. He strides forward, booted feet heavy on the churned earth. No words. Just a swift, brutal kick delivered with the practiced ease of a man shooing a stray dog. His boot connects with the scout's ribs, not hard enough to break, but hard enough to lift the man slightly and stop the frantic pounding of his head.

"Enough groveling, maggot!" Ahal's voice cracks like a whip. "Spit it out! What happened? Where is your patrol? Did the steppe ghosts spook you?"

The scout gasps, curling around the fresh pain, blood and mucus mingling on his chin. He tries to push himself up onto his elbows, his one good arm trembling violently. His eyes, wide and white-rimmed with terror, dart past Ahal, searching, until they lock onto Noga.

Noga stands motionless, a statue carved of shadow and iron. He lowers the strip of dried meat he was about to bite. His eyes, cold and utterly focused, pin the scout like a butterfly to a board. There is no anger yet, only the terrifying, patient stillness of a predator assessing new prey.

The scout flinches under that gaze, a fresh wave of terror shaking him. He swallows convulsively, trying to find his voice. It emerges as a ragged whisper, then gains strength, fueled by pure, unadulterated panic.

The scout shakes his head violently, spraying mud and blood. He stares directly at Noga, his eyes burning with a message of pure, apocalyptic dread. "The Ambitious Witch! The Khan of Tepr! SHE IS BACK! And she said this showdown will decide who the Sky favours as Khan of Khans!"

The words hang in the suddenly frigid air, heavier than the scent of blood and horses. The bustling camp noise dies. Even the wind seems to hold its breath. Men freeze mid-motion, tools half-lifted, conversations cut off mid-syllable. The only sound is the scout's ragged, panicked breathing and the frantic pounding of his own heart against his ribs.

Noga doesn't move. Doesn't blink. The piece of dried meat slips from his fingers, landing silently in the mud. His gaze, still locked on the scout, deepens, the glacial ice replaced by something darker, more volcanic. The stillness around him isn't just silence; it's the vacuum before the detonation. The scout's declaration isn't just news; it's a boulder dropped into the stagnant pond of the siege, shattering the carefully constructed narrative of Tepr's imminent collapse. She's back. A slow, predatory smile, utterly devoid of warmth, begins to curve his lips.

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